Here
by alwaysfanciful
Summary: Sheriff Stilinski is out of town, and Stiles can't bear to be alone at night with his nightmares. He ends up at an unlikely doorstep.


It was late, and everyone had a place to go, but not him. They were all tired, bloody, dirty, and everyone wanted to go home. Except Stiles.

Stiles didn't want to go home.

His dad was out of town for the weekend at some convention, and that meant his house was empty. He knew he could go to Scott's, but the McCall house had very recently been filled to capacity, what with Isaac and the ever-infuriating Agent McCall. Stiles didn't want to impose. On anyone.

And that's why he was here, standing at the door to Derek's loft running a nervous hand through his already mussed hair.

What was he doing?

Stiles shook his head in defeat and turned to leave. Who was he kidding? He couldn't legitimately expect Derek to give him a room for the night. He'd just have to go home and face it alone.

"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you trying to ask me something?"

The gruff question made Stiles whip around in surprise. Derek must have opened the door while he'd been having his inner debate.

"Oh. Uh—well," he began to stutter.

Derek grumbled, "Stiles, seriously. I'm tired. Spit it out."

The pale teenager rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as he replied in an unsure voice, "Yeah, okay. Well I was wondering…can I stay here for the night?"

Derek just gave him a look—the familiar "I'm surrounded by idiots look" he seemed to wear almost daily—and Stiles sighed. "Look, never mind, forget I—"

"Okay, come in," Derek said abruptly. He opened the door a bit wider and left it open as he walked away into the loft. He looked back. "Are you coming or what?"

Stiles' face broke into a relieved smile, and he nodded, following Derek inside. There wasn't much in the loft—not like there ever was—but the ratty couch Derek had in the center suddenly looked incredibly inviting. Derek grabbed a pillow off of his own bed, and he tossed it at Stiles. It hit him on the side of the head, but he picked it up and threw it onto the couch while sticking out his tongue at the gruff man.

Derek just rolled his eyes. "It's late, man. Just go to sleep," he told Stiles through a yawn, and the younger boy agreed.

Stiles laid down and settled in, punching the pillow until it was the perfect shape for his head. He splayed his legs out across the couch, glad that Derek's loft maintained a comfortably warm temperature.

Before he closed his eyes though, he twisted his head around to look at the lump under the sheets that was Derek Hale. Stiles' big brown eyes were revealing. They'd always been. Right now they were silently expressing his gratitude.

Although he wouldn't tell anyone, he didn't think he could stand being in an empty house when the nightmares started. They were a constant in his life, but another constant was human contact. His father. He was always there for Stiles, and the seventeen-year-old honestly didn't know if he could do it without him. They'd been getting more manageable lately. Or maybe he'd just gotten used to them, he wasn't really sure which.

But manageable or not, Stiles didn't want to have to be alone with them. He didn't want to be alone with his own head. Not anymore.

Which is why even just having the knowledge that someone was there in the same room as him—even if it was the surly werewolf—gave him an unbelievable amount of comfort.

Stiles rolled back and threw his arm over his eyes. He felt exhaustion overwhelm him, and he was pulled into unconsciousness.

Unconsciousness…

He wasn't unconscious.

He was awake.

But what was he doing lying on the ground? His face was pressed into the leaves, and he seemed to be out in the forest again.

He rolled over off of his stomach and gasped in horror. Terror filled his whole being as he saw the amount of blood on his clothes. On his hands. On his arms.

He could feel it on his face.

Sticking to him. Covering him. Coating him.

_Melding with him_.

Stiles dug his crusted nails into his crimson palm as the fear began to worm its way into his brain, heightening everything and turning his thoughts into crazy rambling.

He struggled to his feet, feeling dizzy as the blood rushed to his head. He swayed, but he managed to right himself somehow. He focused on putting one foot in front of the other to move forward.

Right.

Left.

Right.

Oh god, blood.

There was a pool of blood by his left foot.

Left.

Right.

No, it was a trail of blood. Something—or _someone_—had been dragged, leaving the sticky path across the dirt. He began to follow it, looking down until…

No.

_No._

Stiles screamed. The sound came from the very depths of his being, the raw emotion tearing at his vocal chords. Tearing at himself.

"No!" he screamed.

The trail ended at a pile of bodies. They were stabbed and mutilated. They were all there. Lydia, Alison, Peter, Derek, Isaac, Boyd, Erica, Cora, Kira, Mrs. McCall, Agent McCall, Mr. Argent, Gerard, Aiden, Danny, Ethan, Jennifer, Deaton, and _his dad_. Scott was there at the front on the ground, but he wasn't dead.

He reached out a bloody hand and whispered hoarsely, "Stiles. Stiles, help. Help us."

But then he was dead, and his hand dropped to hit the dirt.

Stiles fell to his knees, his body unable to hold itself up anymore as the tears blurred his vision. And then he felt cold metal in his hands, and he looked down at his right hand, the fingers clasped tightly around the hilt of a bloody knife.

No, no, no. It couldn't have been him. It wasn't possible.

Then came the whispers.

"You did this to us Stiles."

"You killed us all."

The bodies began to rise, sitting up and staring straight at Stiles, unblinking. Stiles felt the panic squeeze his lungs, and his chest heaved as he tried to breathe.

"You did this to us Stiles."

He screamed again, continuously, his voice as broken as his spirit.

They stood up, coming closer.

And closer.

"You did this—"

"_Stiles_! Stiles, wake up!"

Stiles' eyes flew open, but his breathing didn't calm. His heartbeat didn't steady. His screams didn't stop.

"Stiles, wake up! You're okay!"

A familiar face formed above him. Derek. The older man wrapped Stiles tightly in his arms, pulling his thin, shaking frame into his chest.

Stiles sobbed brokenly into Derek's chest. "It was my fault. I killed them."

Derek felt his heart break a little at the boy's pain, and he cradled him, rocking back and forth on the couch. He tried to soothe him, letting him soak his t-shirt with tears and holding his head.

"No Stiles, it was a dream, that's all. It was just a dream."

Stiles continued to shudder and sob, and Derek felt Stiles' slim hand grasp his t-shirt like a lifeline, as if to assure himself that Derek was really there.

"I'm here Stiles. It's all going to be okay."

Derek closed his eyes and tightened his grip.

He whispered those words again, and—to his own surprise—he meant every one from the bottom of his heart. "It's going to be okay, Stiles. I'm here. I've got you."


End file.
